


to an angel

by t3rrifyer



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Slow Burn, Softie Crowley (Good Omens), good omens - Freeform, i love them shut up, idiot plot, kind of, prompted, theyre disasters someone help them, theyre married
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-07-30 14:54:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20099020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t3rrifyer/pseuds/t3rrifyer
Summary: aziraphale finds a stack of love letters written by an anonymous man, to an anonymous man, dated throughout the 1800s.inspired bythispost by dickwheelie on tumblr





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ok this is the first like. ACTUAL fic ive ever written please bear with me :)

_ “FUCK!” _

Aziraphale’s head turned just in time to witness the demon’s face hitting the paper-laden floor. Quickly, he ran over as Crowley groaned and lifted himself up off the ground.

“Oh, dear - are you alright, Crowley? Your nose is bleeding, oh my, here--” The angel waved a hand over Crowley’s face, miracling his crooked nose back into place and cleaning up the steady stream of blood that had appeared. “There, no harm done! All better, hmm, Crowley?”

“Angel.” Crowley, eyes watering slightly from the residual pain, stood unsteadily in the middle of the bookshop. “I think, perhaps, if I’m slipping and falling over on loose papers in your shop, maybe it means it could do with a bit of  _ tidying, _ yeah?”

Aziraphale felt his face grow warm. He shuffled awkwardly. The shop had been closed for a few hours, and Crowley had showed up to pester him (and by pester, he meant have a nice conversation with him while the demon pretended not to be interested in a particular first-edition book) as he was looking over a few of his newest additions to the bookshop. “Yes, dear… perhaps you’re right. It has been quite a while since I last went through it all…”

Crowley chuckled. “You mean, you haven’t since you moved in?”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes. “Can I get you some tea or anything to make up for it, while you’re here?”

As much as Crowley would’ve  _ loved  _ to spend the rest of the night curled up on the couch, sipping tea and exchanging words with his angel, he had a report due to Hell in the morning and he had a fair bit of yelling to do at his plants. He had been a bit too soft on them lately. He was sure Aziraphale should’ve seen the struggle on his face, but pressed on regardless. 

“Ah, got some business to finish up at home tonight. Rain check?”

In turn, Crowley was oblivious to the look of disappointment in Aziraphale’s eyes. “Right, of course, I understand! We’ll keep in touch, then,” he rambled, walking his friend to the door.

“Of course. Goodnight, angel.” A soft smile dawned on Crowley’s lips as he stepped outside.

“Goodnight, dear,” the angel returned, a similar look shining on his own face.

The crisp night air stung his lungs as Crowley walked out to the Bentley. Sighing, Aziraphale locked up the shop, turning off a couple lights and retreating to the back room with a stack of books in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short first chapter, but much more to come!! feedback is appreciated, thanks so much for reading :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KEEP REALIZING I FUCKED SOMETHING UP AND THEN GOING BACK AND FIXING IT but its fine please bear with me,,,

Morning light poured through the windows, illuminating an angel’s face and an assortment of old books scattered among his desk. He was becoming mildly bored with his current task. Against his will, his mind kept drifting to the events of last night - Crowley was fine, he was sure, but he still felt terrible that his own papers splayed messily about had caused him any sort of pain. He recalled Crowley’s bleeding face, illuminated by the soft lamplight of the shop, his eyes scrunched and tearing with pain - those beautiful, golden eyes and the way they stood just a little too close as he fussed over his friend, face slightly flushed, Aziraphale studying Crowley’s features in the light, sharing breaths, faces just inches apart…

He cut his thoughts off abruptly. He had gone over this with himself already, he couldn’t let feelings like this consume him. It would only lead to confusion and pain; logically, the best choice was to ignore it, lest it complicate things between the two of them - not to mention the wrath of Heaven and Hell. No, he thought, he wasn’t allowed to think like that. Just stop it. Shaking his head, he stood up and stretched. Maybe today, he would tidy the shop a bit - clean up the loose papers to prevent any more accidents from happening. Yes, that would be his plan for the day.

Aziraphale made himself a cup of cocoa, cleared off his desk, and set to work. He shuffled around the shop and picked up anything that seemed out of place. Books that had fallen off of shelves, papers escaped from their files, folders astray on the floor. Bit by bit he carried armfuls over to his desk to be sorted through. Soon, with a final glance around, he was satisfied that the shop seemed properly tidied.

He decided that the shop would remain closed today, so he had time without distraction to sort through the pile on his desk. With a determined huff and another sip of cocoa, he sat down and got to work. Two piles accumulated on the floor next to his desk - one full of things to be tossed in the bin, and one to be put back into its proper place in the shop. One might think Aziraphale would’ve been better off using miracles to help him sort through it all, but he preferred to do it by hand; in fact finding the activity quite relaxing. One by one he went through the papers - old magazines and magazine clippings, loose pages fallen out of old books, files detailing old business, recipes gifted to him from various chefs he’d befriended over the years… The assortment was almost overwhelming, but the angel didn’t mind. He was having fun going through all of it.

Then, something caught his eye. He moved a couple things over to reveal a large stack of old papers. They were a little worn, otherwise folded up and wrapped carefully in a beautiful red ribbon. Curiously, Aziraphale picked up the stack and gently untied it, picking up the first paper and unfolding it with care. His eyes scanned over the page.

_ March 3, 1793 _

_ To my love, _

_ Every day it burns more and more. I drown in the feeling of you. Your deep, captivating eyes. The way they light up when looking at something that sparks your interest. The smell of your cologne and hints of tea and your favorite pastries. I’ve loved you longer than you could know, and I’ll love you for a lifetime longer. _

_ Love, _

_ me. _

Aziraphale read the passage over and over. A series of love letters? They had never been published, never even sent. He briefly wondered if he shouldn’t be reading them, feeling as if he was violating this man’s privacy, but curiosity held him tightly in its grip. He simply had to read more. He picked up another letter, and then another, and another.

Some of them were long, heartfelt letters. Some were shorter, just a sentence or two, and many of them were simply poems dedicated to this man’s seemingly unrequited love. There were dozens upon dozens of these letters, dated from 1793 in the first letter through the late 1830s. About fifty years, a letter or two written per year, becoming more frequent towards the end. They seemed to detail one man pining for another, in a time when such a thing was unheard of. He read on.

_ October 27, 1813 _

_ To you. _

_ I know I’ll never work up the courage to send these. I’m a coward. But it means I can be honest with you, in writing, at least; I can tell you all that I admire about you, I can describe how I feel in as much detail as I’d like. _

_ And so, I tell you that it hurts. I watch you from afar, we meet up, and all too soon it’s over and I’m left alone, aching to see you again. You are my light, you are all that is right with the world, and you’re all I want. You’re all I’ve ever wanted. _

_ But I can’t have you, not really. Your family. My family. They’d destroy us in more ways than one. How cruel of God, to set the one thing you want more than anything right in front of you, and not let you have it. You’re my forbidden fruit. It burns that I can’t have you. _

_ Every day, my heart aches out of my chest, burning through my skin and tearing me apart from the inside. It aches, it aches with all the force of the Nine Realms and Heaven above, it aches with all the strength of this horrible world, and it aches with all the power that a simple smile or a single kind word from your beautiful lips has on mine own heart. _

_ It aches. _

Aziraphale was stunned. These letters, while not expertly written, were written with such pure _ love _ and _ honesty _ that Aziraphale could feel this man’s pain as his own. He felt sorry for this man with every inch of his being. Perhaps it was the pure, unbridled feelings that poured from these letters that made it impossible for him to stop reading. Some of the letters were smudged and damaged from years of wear; some slightly singed, some slurred with what seemed to be tears, some passages scribbled out angrily. But behind it all, the love and the pain seeped out of each page, filling Aziraphale’s heart.

_ ...and I am drawn to you, like a moth to a flame. The flame burns, but I can’t stop. _

_ It burns like sulfuric hellfire, engulfing me in the essence of you and scorching every inch of me. I feel it in my bones, the flame reaching out from my heart into my face and arms and legs and fingertips and toes. My love for you burns like nothing else. I beg for it to release me, but I am trapped in its grip with nowhere to go. The fire fills my lungs. I can’t call out for help, for you, I can’t even scream in agony. I only wish you were here to quell the flame. Your presence is a soothing flow of cool water, wrapping me up safely and lovingly. How I long to drown in you. _

_ To my love, _

_ Today, as we gazed upon the water together, our hands brushed. Such a small action. To you, it likely means nothing, just a slip of the hand. But you could never know how I longed to reach out, to take your hand in mine and never let go... _

_ ...curse the beings that separate us. If it weren’t for them, nothing but the fear of rejection would stop me from confessing, from throwing it all away and telling, even showing you how I feel. Even then, I fear I would still be too much of a coward to risk our friendship. I don’t know how you might react. Perhaps you’d never talk to me again. What would I do then? I can’t live without you, my love… _

_ ...lips the color of the flower petals that drift down from above us, _

_ Eyes as vibrant and full of wonder as the summer sky, _

_ Your entire being soft as a cloud, inviting me to float among you forever, _

_ hands intertwined, _

_ two hearts joined as one. _

It touched Aziraphale’s heart - the way this man wrote with such passion and regret. There was a pressure deep in his chest, a growing heat in his face, and pinpricks behind his eyes, mourning for a man who he’d never known but somehow felt so close to. Idly he wondered: had these letters ever been mailed, perhaps this man could’ve been happy? Perhaps his love wasn’t as unrequited as he thought?

He sighed as he turned over the last letter in the stack. It seemed as if the man had given up. He wrote of how he could never be satisfied, not in this lifetime. The author must have passed away soon after, Aziraphale thought, as this was the last one ever written. He took note of the date..._ 1838\. _ Why did that year seem familiar? He pondered, but nothing came to mind, so he decided to forget about it.

Perhaps he should show Crowley. Knowing him, he’d pretend not to be interested, but Aziraphale felt the need to share this story with somebody. It was so pure and unbridled, and it made his heart ache for the author. This stack of letters, suddenly, felt impossibly sentimentally important to him. Gently, he gathered all the papers, folded them up, and tied the ribbon around the stack just as he had found them. 

Checking his watch, he found it was now early in the afternoon, and Aziraphale had spent most of the morning and into the day reading these letters. He stood and stretched, then walked towards his phone to ask a certain demonic being to meet up.


	3. Chapter 3

That morning, Crowley had gotten a fair bit done - he’d sent off a memo to Hell taking credit for a couple recent corrupt politicians’ actions, gotten a decent amount of yelling at his plants in, and was now lounging on his couch, definitely not reading an original Charles Dickens that he had swiped from Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Though he would never admit it, this had become a habit and a hobby of Crowley’s, snatching books that caught his eye from the bookshop and returning them cunningly, so that the angel was never aware. He had recently been intrigued by some of Dickens’ early works, the stories humorous enough to keep his interest yet offering some serious insight into human nature. Crowley quite liked reading, really, as it gave him a chance to escape his own world and live in another for a short time. However, he had an image to maintain. So, to the public eye, he didn’t  _ do  _ books.

But he did, in private. He blamed it on the negative (positive?) influences of Aziraphale, and his stupid, gorgeous, book-loving face. Over the years, perhaps the angel’s own interest in literature had rubbed off on Crowley. He didn’t realize (or maybe chose not to acknowledge it,) but after thousands of years the pair had grown noticeably more similar to one another. Whoever said  _ opposites attract _ obviously missed the rest of the statement. It should’ve been  _ opposites attract and eventually influence each other enough to balance out, creating a perfect, equal harmony. _

Crowley wasn’t really reading the book he held in his hands. He wanted to. He was  _ trying  _ to. But his mind was focused elsewhere - namely, on Aziraphale. His thoughts kept drifting back to last night; the look of worry on Aziraphale’s face, the caring way he had healed his broken nose, his worried babbling. 

Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley allowed himself to drown in his own emotions.

And so he drowned.

He drowned in his angel’s fluffy white hair, his outdated fashion, and the sound of his laughter. He drowned in that certain light, fluttering feeling that filled his chest when he heard Aziraphale laugh, or address him as  _ my dear _ (and, on one memorable occasion,  _ my love, _ which was claimed to be a slip of the tongue.) He drowned in his loving nature and innocence, and in the slight flush that painted his face and the tips of his ears when he was drunk, and in his unwavering passion for books. He drowned in the six thousand years they had known each other, slowly growing closer and closer.

He longed to let his hand linger on Aziraphale’s just a little too long, to wrap an arm around him while walking him home, or simply to let their faces hover too close together for a moment. He wanted to share words of love and admiration with him. What stopped him was, regrettably, his own cowardice. He was afraid of rejection, of making things awkward, of Heaven or Hell finding out and ripping both of them apart limb from limb (or worse.) Crowley felt trapped; unable to escape his emotions, and unable to act on them. 

He was shaken from his thoughts by the sudden, distinct ringing of a phone. Almost gratefully, he set down his book and walked over to the phone.

“Hello, Angel,” he said confidently into the receiver.

“Crowley! Hello, dear - how did you know it was me?”

Crowley chuckled. “Lucky guess.” He neglected to mention that no one else ever called him on this phone, as the number was reserved for  _ important _ callers.

“Right, well... I was just calling to check if maybe you’d like to meet up today? I’ll buy you lunch, or dinner, or maybe you just want to come visit me at the shop? We could meet at St. James Park, whatever you’d like. Actually, I’ve got something neat to show you, too!” Aziraphale rambled.

A smile tugged at the corners of Crowley’s lips. “I’d love to see you. I could pick up some food and drop by the bookshop, say, five o’clock?”

“Sounds perfect, Crowley. See you then!”

They exchanged goodbyes, and Crowley hung up the phone, a bit too excited at the idea of seeing Aziraphale. He pondered what he should get for food… there was always that nice little bakery him and Aziraphale had recently tried, wasn’t there? He could pick up some pastries and a couple hot drinks…

Mind made up, he grabbed his jacket and headed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the short chapter, pls be patient :,)  
this was supposed to be a quick oneshot but now i have like 8 chapters planned oh dear


	4. Chapter 4

In an apartment above a quaint little bookshop in London, an angel and a demon were sitting together contentedly, having just consumed an inhuman amount of pastries, tea, and a bit of alcohol. The pair chatted with smiles upon their faces about nothing particularly important. They were, quite simply, just enjoying each other’s presence.

Crowley took another sip of wine. He paused a moment, remembering something from earlier that day that had sparked his curiosity.

“Say, didnt you have something… I think you called it  _ neat _ to show me?” he asked.

Aziraphale blinked. “Oh! Yes, yes, of course! Thank you for reminding me, my dear, I nearly forgot…” He stood up and disappeared down the stairs for a brief moment. Quickly, he reappeared with what seemed like a stack of letters wrapped in red ribbon…

Oh  _ fuck. _

_ Fuck fuck fuck shit FUCK nope no way no no no no NO _ .

Crowley was panicking. Internally. Not visibly, but intensely.

There was  _ no fucking way _ it could be the same stack of letters, right? Nope. Couldn’t be. Impossible.  _ No way no way nope not ever please Satan no. _

“I really think you’ll like these, dear!” Aziraphale beamed, gently untying the ribbon and pulling an old, folded piece of paper from the top of the stack. Crowley gulped. 

“And what are they?”

“From what I can tell, they’re love letters! Seemingly from one man to another man, but they were written from late in the eighteenth century to the mid nineteenth… they’re fascinating, really, Crowley, you must read them…” Aziraphale handed him one of the letters. “Here’s my favorite.”

The demon took a deep breath. There had to be plenty of homoerotic repressed love letters from the nineteenth century, right? Right. He started reading. This was simply another man’s letters, written in the exact same time period, with the exact same handwriting, and the exact same words, with the exact same ideas about… the exact same person.

_ Without you, I am in misery… _

_ ...And so, here I will lie, aching my heart for you forevermore... _

_ Fuck. _

Yeah. These were them. They had to be. The question was, did Aziraphale know they were his? That these letters were addressed to  _ him? _ He had to test the waters.

“So…” he began, clearing his throat. “So. Uh. What do you make of them?”

Aziraphale thumbed through a few more letters. “I’m not sure, I just thought they were adorable… Judging by the dates, they spanned over a period of  _ fifty years! _ ” He turned to Crowley excitedly. “This is a man who must’ve spent the majority of his life in love with a man he couldn’t have…” The look on his face faltered.

_ You’re right about that,  _ thought Crowley. “Well. They’re…”  _ For you. _ “They’re something.”  _ Act uninterested. _

“Yes… I’m afraid I can’t stop thinking about them. They’re so  _ honest, _ they just… speak to me in some way…” Crowley couldn’t read the expression on his face.

“How, exactly… did you come across these?” 

Aziraphale considered this. “Quite frankly, I’m not sure. I certainly don’t remember ever purchasing them. I was doing a bit of tidying around and came across the bundle... I don’t think I’ve ever seen them before.”

“Interesting,” said Crowley, who was pretending very hard not to be interested. There was a brief pause when the two of them were silent, before Crowley sucked in a breath. “Well. ‘Sgetting awfully late, I think maybe I should head home…”

“Oh.” Aziraphale tried not to be disappointed. “Right, yes, better get home, don’t let me keep you… We’ll talk soon, hm?”

“Of course. Yes,” replied Crowley. He stood up, stretching his long limbs. “See you soon, angel.”

“See you soon.” He gazed at Crowley as he stumbled slightly down the steps, before steadying and attempting to act suave and graceful. Aziraphale chuckled under his breath. He was always sort of clumsy, wasn’t he? 

It was adorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do not like this chapter very much but here take it im sorry also i love all of you :)


End file.
